Bitter Sweet
by thefluxcapacitor
Summary: Do you think there is any personal heaven for any of us?


"_I believe you did not have a happy life.__  
__I believe you were cheated.__  
__I believe your best friends were loneliness and misery,__  
__I believe your busiest enemies were anger and depression.__  
__I believe joy was a game you could never play without stumbling.__  
__I believe comfort, though you craved it, was forever a stranger.__  
__I believe music had to be melancholy or not at all.__  
__I believe no trinket, no precious metal, shone so bright as__  
__ your bitterness.__  
__I believe you lay down at last in your coffin none the wiser__  
__ and unassuaged.__  
__Oh, cold and dreamless under the wild, amoral, reckless, peaceful__  
__ flowers of the hillsides."_

_-A Bitterness, Mary Oliver._

When he was young, things were a disaster. They've always been a disaster for the younger Holmes but when he was very small and very thin, things were worse.

His intellect high and his confidence low, he'd sit in the back of the class, usually head bent down. He didn't like reading the little poem books. They rhymed stupidly. Trite. So stupid.

He didn't like the maths either. The numbers were too simple. Then he was scolded for going ahead in the lesson. Sherlock didn't understand. How can I be scolded for wanting to learn more? But he had to keep pace with his peers. So he'd just sit quietly, annoyed.

He did sort of enjoy watching the videos of all the animals and hearing the scientific names of those animals. He couldn't wait until he was older. Mycroft had told him he would get to dissect them. He was so excited about dissecting an animal that Sherlock once found a dead cat close to home, brought it into the house and cut the thing to bits. Mummy scolded. The house smelled awful. He was punished. He just wanted to learn.

He detested lunch time. Being outdoors with his classmates. They hated him. Because he was smarter, because he stuck out so fucking much. He was different, so he was a freak. And he knew them all so well. He knew as they punched and kicked and as he saw his own blood why they did it. They didn't know any better. They were too stupid to realize what they were doing. Some of them, they were beaten in their own homes. Sherlock knew. And he hated them anyway.

At age 12 Sherlock got to dissect his first creature in school. It was a squid, and it stank like all bloody hell. The children all whined and complained. It just smelled so awful. But Sherlock didn't care. He grinned like a loon and got a perfect score on the assignment. Everyone teased him because he liked the dead things. Well, Sherlock did like the dead things. At least they didn't tease him for no reason. He just wanted to learn. He couldn't help it, he wanted the knowledge. It was the only thing he cared about because it was the only thing that made sense. Mycroft kept telling him he needed to make friends. Too bad, I don't need them. I'm good at being alone.

By age fifteen, Sherlock was a machine. Or so he appeared to be. Drenched in languages, numbers and the periodic table, he knew all the scientific names of half the known sea creatures. He started his own experiments. And finally, he'd learned how to defend himself. He knew how people worked. Their mannerisms meant their thoughts meant their personalities. He knew everyone and they all hated that. No one wanted him to repeat all their darkest secrets to them. "Your parents are having an affair." "You hate your body, that's why you feel the need for attention from the opposite sex." "Perhaps if you weren't so daft you wouldn't have had to repeat your sixth year three times, hm?" And it got him into more beatings, but he didn't mind. The satisfaction he felt when he saw the horror on his predator's faces was too good. They deserved it, who beat kids? Why was that okay? Sherlock had gained too many scars to count on his legs and back. They hurt like hell. But only when he was alone, which was often.

He picked up a cigarette at 16. He'd seen Daddy do it, so why not him? By the fourth drag, it hit him. That little buzz, that curls around down to make your fingertips tingle. For a few moments, his loud and never ending brain went still. He needed more. He smoked another, then another. He was addicted within the month.

Finishing school was easy. University was more of a trip. He threw himself into his work. He was finding murders as fast as he could and sneaking around them, solving them, giving police tips before they could ask his name. And then he'd be gone. The problem was, his fucking brain never shut up. He was awake too often, couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. And then after finishing his research paper for the night, and not having some murder to sniff out, he thought he'd go crazy. He just wanted to be quiet. He smoked a pack in three hours. He found cocaine easily enough. It was university. He'd read enough about it. Sure enough, it shut him right up.

Sherlock was amazed at how many people wanted him in university. Beer was spilled on him, and hands clawed at his trouser zippers. He let it happen sometimes. It scared him but also felt nice. He only let it happen a few times though. He didn't have time for it, he'd rather be high. He'd rather be gone, gone, gone. He still had Mycroft telling him to make some bloody friends, for God's sake. But no, alone protects me. I don't have time for a fucking chemical imbalance in my fucking head, leave me alone.

No one is good enough for me and I'm not good enough for anyone anyway.

Sherlock finished school, found himself a small flat, purchased it. Got high on a regular basis, solved crimes for money. He didn't care about money though. He only needed money to get drugs so he could just shut the fuck up. Inject it, snort it, he didn't care. Softly breathing on his bathroom floor. Sometimes he'd crawl into the tub and lay there for hours. Thinking. Not thinking. In and out. And he'd come back and hate himself even more than usual. He didn't like himself, but he still liked himself more than most people.

Mycroft made him get clean. The government will hound you. Can't even be a junkie in peace. He was clean, then relapsed. Got clean, met Lestrade. Worked with Lestrade, had a relapse. Got fucking bored. Worked in a morgue. His colleague had found an infatuation with him. It was disgusting. Got clean. Smoked too many cigarettes. Wondered what the fuck he was doing. All he cared for was the dead bodies. He preferred them to the live ones by a wide margin.

Bitter. Not lonely only because he didn't know the difference. Angry, all the time. Just chemical imbalances. Smoke another cigarette. What does it matter? Bliss when he proved to be the smartest person in the room. But that got old fast too, because it happened too often. Unless Mycroft was there. Mycroft was much more clever. That bothered him to no end.

Why can I solve everything. I just want a challenge, please.

Mike says, I think I have a potential flat mate for you.  
Sherlock says, oh, really?

"_Do you think there is any  
personal heaven  
for any of us?  
Do you think anyone,  
the other side of that darkness,  
will call to us, meaning us?"_

_-Roses, Late Summer, Mary Oliver._

What in the ever loving bloody fuck. This man, his name is John Watson. And he's a soldier. And he is so lost. But I said dangerous and here you are.

Sherlock thinks he's lost his mind. This man is feeding him compliments off a golden platter, off a silver spoon. He's so fucking patient. He doesn't get angry when he sees a dead body. He runs around and loses a limp that's not really there. John gets happy very fast. And for the first time, Sherlock is a word that he didn't know was plausible: happy.

They go together quite nicely, don't they?

This is my friend, John Watson.  
Colleague.  
Cigarette.

John kills a cabbie, and Sherlock doesn't die.

Sherlock's heart acts strangely when John is around. He doesn't know how to breathe properly. Chemical imbalance. Serotonin, adrenaline, what the hell is that? Oh, for God's sake. This cannot be happening to the great Sherlock Holmes. But it is. It eats at him. He's never cared for anyone but himself. But now he wants to follow John Watson around on bloody stumps for legs and kiss his feet. He's in love with him.

I am not in love, I am not in love, I am not in love.

They do everything together, solve crimes, become whole, (John for the second time, Sherlock for the first time) they share meals and a flat and watch horrible television. The only thing they don't do together is fuck. And Sherlock wants that. But he is not willing to lose the only person who has shown him the slightest affection. He's not willing to lose his friend. He doesn't have friends, he's just got the one.

There are moments when John doesn't understand him. Sherlock knows this. John doesn't understand how Sherlock can go without sleeping and eating. He doesn't get why Sherlock can be so bloody rude. He doesn't get how Sherlock hasn't got any proper manners, how Sherlock can't sympathize over the dead bodies, only tell you how they got there.

Sherlock finally found what he was looking for: someone smarter than him. The only problem is, it makes him sacrifice John Watson for the time being.

After finishing what a certain consulting criminal started, Sherlock jumps up and down. He yells I'M NOT DEAD. At the top of his lungs. John Watson cries maniacally. He socks Sherlock in the face. Sherlock's face remains swollen for three days. But during those three days.

Sherlock's never touched like this before. He adores it. He holds onto it like it's the last thing on Earth. His own personal heaven. Breathing hitched, oh wow. He's holding onto the bedframe and he shouts John's name. He comes. He rolls over in his own sweat and puts his mouth on John's body. He wants to say "I love you" and he does. John says it back. Own personal heaven. Heaven was made just for him.


End file.
